First Impressions
by OneWhoTurns
Summary: Elizabeth had never found violence particularly attractive. But she had to admit… it looked good on him.
1. brute

_A/N: So this WAS actually my very first second-person fic (still getting used to writing in that style), but had to edit for FFnet's weirdo policies. Also my first AC fic. If you follow me on AO3 you've already seen it (but saw it as a reader-insert, as it was originally written, and probably didn't know this char actually does have a name and backstory), but if not, here you go!_

* * *

She understood the appeal, of course. This day and age? With gangs constantly battling for territory, fights breaking out all over the city, and a frankly _alarming_ amount of dead bodies being stumbled over in the streets? It was no wonder Elizabeth had been advised by more than one friend to find some strapping young lad to protect her. She wasn't particularly fond of the implication that she couldn't protect herself, but then again, her usual tactic was to _run_ and/or _hide_ and pray to god that no one found her interesting enough to target.

In the interest of self preservation, her wardrobe had been nearly halved, stowing away anything in gang colours with the hope that one day she could wear them again (there was that lovely muted green dress that she'd saved up for and now this new gang had come along and spoiled the colour). (And it wasn't like her wardrobe had been all that large to begin with.)

Still, every time a friend pointed out the breadth of a man's chest, or a particularly impressive bruise, with the reasoning that such things meant he could take care of himself - and, by extension, any young lady he was escorting - she could only think of back-alley muggings and taproom brawls and, really, would anyone want to be with a man getting himself into those situations to begin with? If he started a drunken fight because some fellow at a pub looked at him the wrong way, who was to say he wouldn't do the same to his lady? While Elizabeth hadn't known many who'd been put in that uncomfortable situation, she had known some, and the thought of being stuck in such an arrangement was chilling.

Then again, she'd have be lying if she'd claimed to have never once admired the strong corded musculature of the boys unloading freight by the docks, or other such industrious types. Truth be told, she _was_ a bit jealous of Emma and her betrothed - a man who could most fittingly be described as a gentle giant. While perfectly harmless (his bulk being mainly attributed to a family farm in his youth and then years of manual labour once moved to the city), he struck an imposing enough figure that she'd begun to think Emma simple when she was puzzled by Elizabeth's complaints over how uneasy the territory wars made her feel. But, of course, arm in arm with William Emma could walk down the street and Blighters and Rooks alike avoided unnecessary confrontation. Elizabeth was not so lucky. So her strategy held: _keep your head down, don't get involved_ ; anonymity was the safest course of action.

Of course, that didn't make her meek. A calculated defence was still _calculated_ , after all, and the front was shrugged easily on and off as she went about her life. A friend would receive a teasing jab in the ribs or a bawdy comment, her laugh perhaps a bit too loud, yet seeing the telltale red or green colours her eyes went to the ground, shoulders tense and both face and posture bland as all hell. And if that front was occasionally difficult to hold? - whether from fear or simply annoyance - well, she did her best. Considering the worst she'd gotten had been a bit of jeering from a group of drunken Blighters and a few finger-shaped bruises on a forearm, she felt confident in her strategy.

The worst part of it all, in her opinion (and perhaps it was a selfish view of things), was that she'd thought things would've changed when she'd moved up in the world. But timing as it was, even as she'd snagged herself better employment, a better living situation, a way out of the grittier parts of London, the Clinkers had become the Rooks and the gang wars began again. And now something was strolling through London, leaving death in its wake.

* * *

Earlier in the day her lip had curled in distaste, stomach rolling at the sight of a red-clad corpse splayed on the sidewalk. A touch of guilt had coloured Elizabeth's conscience as the cynical thought that - well, at least it was mostly Blighters being found dead in the streets - flitted through her mind. (After all, the blood was far less jarring when it melded with the gang's colours. Bloodied Rooks somehow always looked worse for wear.) A soft sigh had bypassed closed lips as she let her eyes glaze over, legs following the now-familiar path back to her employers' residence as she pointedly avoided thinking about any and all gangs. It wasn't like there was much she could do about it, after all, so she might as well accept it and carry on. At least the City of London was far better than Southwark. It was even a pleasant enough experience, the occasional errand on these rare sunny days.

Apart from, you know, the corpses.

So she'd returned to the household.

She'd snagged a choice job, thanks to an awful lot of hard work, careful loitering, and months of impeccable attention to detail. Serving as a parlour-maid for the middle class, as it turned out, was ideal for Elizabeth. Or perhaps it was simply her employer, or at least his wife, who seemed particularly fond of her. Fond enough to give Elizabeth a position at least, in the small cadre of household servants, despite lacking much in the way of qualifications. And far too patient with her, truth be told. Regardless, she had a position now, never lacking a roof over her head or food on her table, and even got Sundays off. She felt astonishingly lucky. She would never want to compromise such a perfect situation.

Which was why she hesitated when entering her lady's chambers only to be greeted by a broad back knelt before the locked trunk at the foot of her lady's bed. Her first thought - laden with curses - was quickly dismissed. A quick flick of eyes over the figure revealed no colours or insignia for the gangs, which might be considered a small relief apart from the minor detail that this was still, ostensibly, a _thief_. In the rooms _she_ was supposed to be in charge of, at least part of the time. And as lovely as her mistress was, she didn't wish to put her in such a position that might call her trust in Elizabeth into question. So it may be best to simply cry out for help, perhaps another servant could at least bear witness to clear her name if need be. But also: _thief_. _Criminal_. Potentially the sort to carry a weapon. If she _did_ cry out, who's to say her neck wouldn't be on the line? Perhaps the best course of action would be to turn right back around and go report the theft to the housekeeper, she'd know what to do.

Right. So… careful extraction then.

She managed a single quiet step backwards before the floorboards beneath her creaked far louder than such sturdy things should. Elizabeth froze, breath caught in her throat, an instantaneous debate - if she should run (loud, but quick) or try to continue slowly inching away - pinged back and forth in her head. Before she'd decided which to follow, the thief was standing, turning to face her.

For all his face was mostly shadowed by the heavy hood he wore, Elizabeth's eyes immediately swept the rest of his figure, seeking gang colours again, if only out of instinct. Red? Red on his waistband, at least. And a red-

"Are you wearing a _cravat_?" The words slipped from her lips without thinking, utterly bewildered. If it was, it couldn't have been tied correctly.

...Shit.

 _Shit!_

Her mouth snapped shut in the same instant as she realised she'd been gaping at him in incredulous confusion, and she quickly turned her eyes to the ground, slipping on the bland, meek little shell that was her shield, drawing into herself and somehow shrinking her very presence. But not before she noticed the amused twitch of his lips.

Dear god, what had she been thinking? (Of course, that was obvious: an awful lot of nothing useful.) But really; one did not expect a thief in a brocade waistcoat and silken cravat (or was it a necktie?). It had blindsided her, truly. Even now she wasn't quite sure how she _should_ be reacting, though she was quite aware that this certainly wasn't it.

There was a moment of pause, her eyes fixed on the ground, too tense to blink, her flight instincts gradually overpowering her freeze instincts. When he moved to step toward her she bolted, running for the stairs.

When she returned a few minutes later, housekeeper in tow, the room was empty, the trunk still locked, and the window conspicuously open.

* * *

It got more absurd. Two days later, having been given the night off, Elizabeth was on her way to a pub on the north end of Southwark to meet Emma and her fiance. Crossing the Thames would've been a bit easier and a bit faster if she'd gone for the omnibus, but penny pinching had become a habit and it wasn't _too_ far a walk. She certainly began to regret it when she heard sheer pandemonium at her back. Gun shots, carriage slamming against carriage, and the sound of terrified horses and cursing immediately made her push even closer to the edge of the bridge, only to watch them come barrelling down the thoroughfare.

Even in the dimming light she recognised his clothes. It was a distinctive look; the quilted leather collar on the duster, the fine waistcoat, the _is-it-a-failed-cravat-or-a-rakishly-casual-necktie_. He came and passed in moments, but she'd been struck by the absolutely puzzling addition of a top hat. Even more puzzling was the animosity of the two separate vehicles of Blighters on his tail, guns at the ready even as the thief swerved recklessly between carriages. Given the red band under his belt and the red ringing his hat she'd have assumed him to be on their side - or perhaps tangentially so, given the minimal flagging of colours. But she could only assume, what with the Blighters' fury and the thief's bark of laughter, that they were not, in fact, allies of any sort.

She was thoroughly rattled for a moment, heart pounding loud in her throat as she thanked God for not being trampled. But what else was there to do, really, besides continue? It gave her something to share with her friends, at least: _I was almost killed by a madman being chased by armed thugs_. What a tale.

* * *

Somehow, by the time she'd reached the Duke of York and had been greeted by warm smiles and a fresh pint, the story had gone from bizarre to entertainingly absurd.

Elizabeth let out a not-so-ladylike snort at Emma's flippant suggestion that the only solution here was to become a vigilante and track down the newly dubbed 'gentleman thief' herself. "If this is your attempt at matchmaking, I cannot fathom what you must think of my prospects," Elizabeth teased, grinning.

"Well, if he's so good as a thief he'd at least provide for you," Emma grinned right back. "And think of it this way: with Blighters on his tail, you'd make out like a bandit as his new widow. Could buy yourself your own hovel and everything."

At that Elizabeth had to laugh.

"Nah, she's too good for that now," William's tone was warm, merely teasing. "Can barely make it to Southwark for a pint without swooning over the dangerous streets."

"Oh? Are you slumming it with us tonight, then?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes in response. "If I were, I'd be doing a poor job of it. This place is practically _clean_ for Christ's sake. And none of that enticing rank of stale sweat and piss in the air. Where are the drunken brawls and the gang toughs? I simply am not scandalised nearly enough."

Emma shoved her hard enough to threaten her beer to spill, and Elizabeth widened her eyes at Emma accusingly, quickly wiping away the droplet that had come perilously close to soiling her skirt, and glaring at the girl even as she tried not to laugh.

It was a few pints later that the subject was broached again.

"If you _really_ want to be scandalised…"

* * *

And that was how Elizabeth ended up, about 75% willing and 80% tipsy, giggling arm in arm with Emma as the three of them made their way to the foundry. She held Emma's arm a bit too tight, eyes a bit too wide, skin jittering as alcohol twisted her fear to adrenaline. William knew a fellow, supposedly, who fought regularly in the ring at this particular fight club, and he promised it was a sight to behold. He'd laughed as Elizabeth's eyes had gone the size of saucers upon hearing of the primary draw of such events: last man standing.

It was grotesque in a sort of fascinating way, where she didn't want to watch and yet couldn't look away. It was disgusting, and so often brutish, but god there was something exhilarating about it.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been there before she'd sobered up just enough to remember her curfew. Just as she asked William for the time, the bookie with the ridiculous hat (and jacket, and trousers) announced a new challenger.

William shook his head, brushing off Elizabeth's request. "Give it a minute. I saw this one at a club down Lambeth way, he's brilliant."

Pursing her lips in annoyance, she tried again. "That's lovely and all, but this fight could take ages and I need the work."

Will didn't even look at her, eyes focused on the challenger, letting out a slight snort of laughter. "Nah, this'll be quick," he assured. And with a pat to her back he quickly extricated himself and headed for the bookie, quick to place bets before the fight began.

"Rude." Elizabeth observed to Emma, who gave her a quick squeeze around the shoulders.

"Have some faith, I'm sure you'll be back in no time. I'll pay the fare if you really need it."

She hadn't realised just how correct she'd be.

At first glance, the challenger seemed a decent prospect, but nothing special. Average height - perhaps shorter than most of his opponents - broad-chested and stocky, though it was quickly apparent that that 'stock' consisted primarily of highly responsive musculature. The first round and he'd taken down his three opponents in mere moments.

"...Oh." There wasn't much else for Elizabeth to say about that. _Damn_.

A few minutes between rounds, and she spent the time studying him. He looked familiar, though her experience with shirtless men was few and far between, and - god - well, he had _tattoos_ , and those were distracting as well. Had she met anyone when living in Southwark that had matched his description? It took a moment to drag her eyes from his bare chest and back to his face, which she examined carefully.

If Elizabeth were the sort to find dangerous men attractive - and she wasn't, of course not, because danger was _danger_ , whatever it might be dressed as - she might consider the scar cutting through his brow to be… well, _dashing_ didn't seem quite right. In combination with the similar scar on his (surprisingly well-groomed) jaw, she settled on the descriptor of _roguish_. She couldn't quite place the colour of his eyes from where she stood amongst the crowd, but that wolfish grin was eerily familiar as well. Gaze flicking down once more she considered the tattoos again. A sort of stylised cross, not a symbol she recognised, and a swooping bird. Beside the bird hung what from here looked like a coin on a thin cord of leather, like a necklace. That too prickled at her memory, like she should recognise it. It was almost irritating.

He glanced down at his hands, flexing them casually, mouth a cocky smirk as his next set of opponents assembled, ready to jump into the ring. He didn't even turn as the first approached him from behind, not at first, but when he did it was a flash, ducking under the man's swinging arm and slamming a fist straight up into his jaw. Elizabeth could only stare in amazement, along with the rest of the crowd, as the first opponent dropped like a sack of potatoes. _Brutal_.

She watched the muscles of his back tense and flex as he examined his wrapped palms once more, and could only imagine the look on his face as he spoke, voice a fine-edged casual drawl: "Come now lads, don't be skittish."

He was baiting them - though for god's sake _why_ he was inviting four men to attack him all at once she couldn't reason. Whatever his intention was, it seemed to work. Soon he was surrounded, an elastic weaving of bodies and fists, dodging and striking and- Elizabeth winced at the audible crack as one of the men's arms folded in a manner it _really_ shouldn't. Still, the tattooed challenger moved with a savage sort of grace, like some kind of devastating dance, taking down one opponent after another, moving far faster than she would have presumed possible.

Elizabeth had never found violence particularly attractive. But she had to admit… it looked good on _him_.

It wasn't until the third round that a single punch connected with him. A fraction of an instant after taking a blow to the shoulder he had already ducked back to circle around the fellow who'd thrown the punch, hooting his approval. "Well done, sir! First touch of the night - you should be proud!"

With a growl the fellow charged again, but he was met with a dodge, a strike, and one arm was pivoted at such an angle as to send the man barrelling toward the edge of the ring. Elizabeth took a reactionary step back as he slammed into the boards, brows lifted in astonishment, briefly wondering if the fencing would hold.

Emma gripped Elizabeth's sleeve, squealing in that way young women do when faced with sensationalism. Elizabeth couldn't look away, watching as the now-defending challenger stepped to his groaning opponent. His lips twitched into that small smirk, somewhere between amusement and satisfaction, that she now recognised. That smirk, that coin - hell, how hadn't she recognised the waistband before now?

When he spoke it was too playful to be deemed sneering, though the casual murmur still would never qualify as sincere. He gripped the man's shirt with both hands, watching his fingers in the fabric rather than addressing the man himself, amused as he shook his head. "...So proud." He punctuated the statement by pulling the dazed man to him, butting him in the head before drawing him back and raising his knee, using a hand on the back of the man's head to slam him face-first into it. Even if the opponent hadn't passed out he certainly didn't plan to keep fighting, body tumbling to the ground as the tattooed challenger rolled his shoulders back.

Elizabeth finally got a look at his eyes. Brown, or maybe hazel, clouded by a haze of adrenaline but glinting hungrily nonetheless. He wasn't looking at her, merely half-focused beyond the edge of the ring where she happened to be standing. It made the hair at the back of her neck stand on end. Her own eyes widened, spotting the two men who had edged their way closer, looking livid despite - or maybe because of - the injuries they'd already received. Her mouth opened, reflexively prepared to call out a warning (useless as it was), and she saw the second his eyes snapped to her face, determined the cause of her expression, and that wolfish spark came back to his grin as he turned and- 1, 2- hook- jab- pivot and strike and both men were down for the count.

"You promised a _challenge_ , Topping!" He jeered, hands outstretched and gesturing to six fallen opponents.

The bets, apparently were gradually tilting toward his favour, though the next round of opponents looked particularly intimidating. From what Elizabeth could gather, the rounds had some unspoken system based on previous performance of some sort, some way of keeping the best fighters fresh for the last bouts, and the hulking men that now grunted and spat looked unambiguously imposing in comparison to the smaller but more nimble survivor of the first few rounds.

 _This_ time, he wasn't quite so lucky. The first few swings were dodged easily, countered, with a propensity for head-butting ( _hard-headed, of course he is_ ), but then a solid punch to the cheek snapped his head to the side. Elizabeth had to admit, while she'd felt a bit bad for the opponents in the first round or two, she found herself rooting for the challenger this round, perhaps only in the face of such massive opponents. She hissed in sympathy along with several other spectators.

He wasn't even fazed. It was almost off-putting, the cocky grin tinged with blood. His voice had dropped from a loud boasting jeer to something quieter, more menacing, on the malicious side of playful. "Now that's more like it."

If she'd thought he'd been brutal before, she must have been mistaken. He'd been _toying with them_ before, that was clear to see now, treating the fight like a game. But a switch had just been flipped. Elizabeth felt the colour draining from her face with each subsequent thud and crack and snap, watching blood trickle from wounds she hadn't thought possible from bare hands. A few more hits connected with him as well, though they were glancing, redirected before they could do any severe damage. There was no way this man was an amateur. Surely he was trained. He had to be, to be that… _efficient_.

Elizabeth found herself almost as irritated as she was impressed. These men had jobs, had work they needed to do, maybe even families to support, and he very well could be crippling them for life. It wasn't competition, it was _condemnation_. Hiding her disapproval behind guarded eyes, Elizabeth patted Emma's shoulder, murmuring in her ear. "That's him."

"Who?" Emma's eyes were wide, a flush brought to her cheeks at the exhilaration of the fight.

"The thief. The madman in the carriage."

Her eyebrows shot up, blinking in surprise before glancing back to the man in the ring, his opponents now all down for the count, his knuckles and face both bloodied for his effort along with a bleeding scratch across his chest, lifting a fist to strike at the air and enjoying the cheers of the crowd perhaps a bit too much. "The _gentleman_ thief?" She sounded incredulous.

Elizabeth's tone was wry as she took him in again, focusing on those familiar features. "Yes, well… I may have been mistaken about that," she observed drily. He was no gentleman. That was becoming plain to see.

Emma snorted. "Apparently." She'd turned to look as well, and Elizabeth could swear she spotted the moment a horrible idea came into Emma's mind, the way Emma's eyes flashed in the fiery glow of the foundry.

Why was she smiling? "He's mad." Elizabeth wasn't sure why, but she felt the need to clarify that point to her friend. "Stark raving. As in 'Will saw him in Lambeth 'cos he'd escaped the asylum' mad."

"Hm." There was no positive outcome from a thoughtful response like that. Elizabeth could sense the gears turning in Emma's meddling head as she murmured, distantly, "Maybe." Christ, that smile meant nothing good.

Elizabeth thought to warn Emma off whatever she was planning, or perhaps poke about with questions until she might determine what exactly it was, but it seemed that the fights were over for the night, the night's star challenger having been deemed the new champion, and Elizabeth's plans were interrupted as other spectators filed past. William had gone to the bookie seemingly ages ago and hadn't yet returned. She thought she spotted his head in the crowd of people seeking their payouts. ...This would take a while. Elizabeth sighed, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back against the edge of the ring so she could face Emma.

"What's the look for?" Elizabeth's eyes had narrowed, tone suspicious as she focused her undivided attention on her friend who now shifted foot to foot, avoiding Elizabeth's gaze remarkably casually.

"What look?" Her tone belonged in a charming Sunday stroll in the park, not on the grimy floor of a foundry-turned-fight-club.

Elizabeth raised an incredulous eyebrow. " _That_ look. With the eyes and the lips and the ' _who, me?_ '" she mocked.

Emma gestured to herself with wide eyes, pouting, and Elizabeth could hear her _who, me?_ ringing clearly in her head.

Elizabeth scoffed a laugh. "Right. Of course. Play innocent, then. I'll find out soon enough, I'm sure."

Emma batted her eyelashes, and Elizabeth saw her gaze flick sideways for a moment before she glanced more pointedly toward the crowd around this so-called Topping's distinctive hat. Garish man. "Wait here a moment, will you? I'll check on William."

Elizabeth frowned. Emma was at it again, with this naive idea that her fiance just radiated some kind of protective aura. But Emma had gone before Elizabeth had the chance to lecture her on the importance of not leaving a lady _alone_ , particularly in a place like _this_. She scowled at Emma's back.

The sound of wood scraping against stone caught her attention, and Elizabeth turned back to the ring only to find the night's champion propping a stool beside the fence not six paces away. She shifted, uneasily, and finally settled on drawing back from the boards, angling herself to keep both the fighter and the crowd around the bookie in her line of sight. She'd rather not have her back to someone like him.

Unfortunately, her movement away only seemed to catch his attention. She was surprised when instead of making a comment he merely caught her eye, nodded respectfully, and returned to his own activities. Which, apparently, was gulping down a full bottle of what she _hoped_ was water, because if it was gin he must have a stomach of _steel_.

His hair was wet with sweat - along with the rest of him, though she tried not to notice - and skin reddened in patches where Elizabeth suspected there would be bruises in the next few hours. He hadn't come out entirely unscathed. Liquid spilled from over-eager lips, and she blamed that last pint for the way her eyes followed it's path down his neck until it mixed with the blood from the scratch on his chest. She watched the pull and strain of muscles under skin as he set aside the bottle, unwrapping first one hand and then the other, revealing skinned knuckles and calloused palms. Reaching out of sight, she heard the quiet hollow pop of a stopper being released, and when his hands came back into view he was pouring an amber liquid over one of them. He'd just switched hands, as if to repeat the motion, when he paused.

Curious as to what could have made him stop, Elizabeth tried to keep her glance around the area subtle, but couldn't find anything particularly of note. Finally looking back to the man, she realised with a start that he was staring at _her_. Smiling. Rather cheekily, if she judged it correctly.

"I'm flattered, madam, truly."

Yes, cheeky seemed the right word for it.

Elizabeth felt her own cheeks heating, and realised what she must've looked like, watching this bare-chested man so openly. Quickly her eyes were on the ground again, a bit irritated to be stuck doing her little display of meekness, in all honesty; even _she_ had thought going out with William would have made the tactic unnecessary, but alas. Shoulders rolled forward, head down, hands slipped from their confrontational stance to clasp mildly before her. She trained her face blank and vacant, shifting to turn even further from the man, though keeping him enough in her periphery to be aware of any trouble from his direction.

She saw forearms draping over the boards as the man turned to face her fully, leaning forward onto his elbows. She didn't want to look high enough to see his face. Avoid eye contact, avoid trouble.

He let out a low whistle. "Impressive." The word was said so casually it was hard to interpret his intention. And Elizabeth didn't intend to seek it out. Hands tapped absently against the boards, drumming out an inconsistent pattern as he waited for some kind of response. Then they paused once more. "Have we met?"

She couldn't help it - she glanced over, slightly irritated at his persistence, just to read his expression before her eyes flicked back to the floor. He was watching her, eyes glinting in a manner far sharper than the genial quirk of his lips. Hesitating for only a moment, Elizabeth shook her head. The silent, bland girl, eyes on the floor. Maybe he'd get bored and leave her alone.

"You're sure?"

There was something in the question - amusement, though Elizabeth wasn't sure if he was making any attempt to hide that.

After another pause, she nodded.

"Really?" She saw him shift in the corner of her eye, straightening, though he still rested his arms against the side of the ring. His tone was almost theatrically casual. "Because I could've sworn you insulted my impeccable fashion sense."

She felt the pink rushing up her neck as she flicked her eyes to him again, unable to stop her lips from their slight purse of irritation before her eyes were on the ground again, blanking out her expression once more. "I think you may have mistaken me for someone else, sir." Her words were mumbled but inside she was cursing. The smugness practically rolled off of him in waves. He had her pegged.

"You are _very_ good at that," he observed again, conversationally. "Tell me: do all the boys get this treatment, or am I special?"

Elizabeth tried to swallow her incredulous snort, and it came out as a soft cough. She almost wanted to tell him the truth, just to knock him down a notch. Cautiously, she looked up only to find a delighted grin on his face. He so obviously wished her to say yes.

"Please tell me I'm special."

Elizabeth's lips did twitch at that, turning ever so slightly toward him, a bit smug at her own spot-on reading of the man. But damn it if his eagerness wasn't a bit endearing. He was a charmer, wasn't he?

He'd returned to cleaning his wounds once she'd finally given him the attention he so obviously craved. Still, even as he swabbed the broken skin of his hands and the cut on his chest (and that balm was assuredly medicated and not the sort of thing any old street thug would keep on their person - who _was_ this man?), he kept glancing back to Elizabeth, apparently awaiting an answer. Despite her better judgment, she had to pinch her lips between teeth to keep from smirking right back.

She wondered just how much of her behaviour she might blame on the alcohol as she realised she'd taken a few small steps in his direction. "You…" Elizabeth glanced away, sure her bemusement must show on her face but not sure how exactly to respond to the question.

"Jacob." He held out a hand, still shiny with whatever greasy ointment he'd been using to dress his wounds. "Frye."

Turning her eyes back to him, Elizabeth made no attempt made to hide her scepticism, an eyebrow raised incredulously at the offered hand.

At first surprised, after glancing at his own hand he seemed to concede that it wasn't exactly the most appealing thing to touch at the moment. He nodded, an air of 'can't blame a lad for trying' in his small smile.

 _Please tell me I'm special._

"You're… _something_ , Mister Frye," she finally capitulated.

Admittedly, he still managed to be quite handsome despite the marks of his fight as he grinned at her. "I'm taking that as a compliment."

Elizabeth huffed a small laugh, glancing back to the diminishing crowd by the exit. Emma was watching, looking far too self-satisfied. Eyes narrowing at her bright smile, Elizabeth's words came out wry, though lacking any malice. "It wasn't meant as one."

Hearing a click of his tongue she looked back again only to find a mockery of hurt on his features, though not coming even close to those laughing eyes. "You wound me, madam."

"Miss," Elizabeth corrected him automatically, the word a half-considered murmur. Upon realisation of the implication, she cleared her throat, immediately turning back to the foundry's entrance as his brows lifted and lips curved into a smirk, ignoring - or trying to ignore - the heat on her skin.

"Miss…?"

But Elizabeth was already walking toward the two she'd come with, feeling a small hint of pointed satisfaction as she called over her shoulder; "Congratulations on your win, Mister Frye."


	2. meek

_A/N: Oh hey look, I wrote more. This is actually just a retelling of the first bit from reversed perspective. I posted the two separately over on AO3 (with the first in second person, the second in third person - which, yes, sounds very confusing), under the series name that I'm going to change the title of this whole project to. ...I may be over-complicating things. I also have a few more pages of follow-up written that will be posted eventually as well. I got hooked on this story and want to keep at it. Also, Elizabeth's ability is entirely inspired by the witches in His Dark Materials. It's a concept I've always liked; such a subtle kind of magic._

* * *

He'd always assumed Evie was the only one who could do that. How, he wasn't quite sure, but he wasn't entirely concerned with it either; it was that same _instinct_ he had - that George had, that their father had had. It was part of being an Assassin. Jacob had an innate ability to aim under pressure, his sister could just… disappear. He'd never seen anyone else do anything like it. Or _not-seen_ it, as the case may be.

The first time he saw _her_ do it, he wasn't even entirely sure that that was what was happening.

Doing a bit of light lifting from a fortuitously open window, he'd been mid-lock-picking (never quite as quick as Evie was, and it was a bit of a sore spot he'd never own up to) when a noise from the hall had driven him to his feet. Looking to the doorway he'd spotted a young woman: clear skin, unassuming clothes, and a textbook look of shock across her face that quickly morphed into puzzlement as she swept her gaze over him.

 _"Are you wearing a_ _ **cravat**_ _?"_

He couldn't help but smirk at the question, its brashness clashing with the prim-and-proper accent clipping her tone.

There had been the briefest sight of widening eyes before… Jacob had just… lost interest. He'd had the oddest sensation of seeing _past_ something. Someone. It was disorienting. He'd blinked, but it was like empty space hanging in the air. Narrowing his eyes, trying to focus, he'd had the vague impression of a woman. A girl? No, a woman — probably. There was a face, maybe? Definitely a body. There was a _figure_ there, but he couldn't _see_ right. And his eyes didn't want to look, not when there was nothing there to see.

But of course, he didn't have to use just his eyes. And with his Assassins' abilities he _could_ see someone; a shifting, unimportant someone, merely flickering in his sight. But when he'd moved - when he'd stepped forward, and his sight had adjusted back to normal - she was back. Whoever she was. The young woman he suddenly remembered had been there to begin with. She wasn't there for long though, turning tail before he truly had a chance to commit her face to memory, and this time when he stopped to watch her with more than his eyes she was no longer unimportant.

Even stranger, the memory was hard to hold onto.

It slipped from his mind like silk, just the tiniest thread remaining, caught, hooked by his willingness to believe it was true. And by that moment before she'd become all blurred edges and missing features. An indistinct memory of hair somewhere between light and dark, skin neither pale nor tanned; a young woman overwhelmingly average. Modest. Nothing exotic, nothing dangerous that should catch his eye. Jacob had to remind himself to think about it, to remember it, to keep her impossible vagueness in mind.

He hadn't recognised her the second time.

She'd been someone else entirely.

Of course, Jacob rarely ever noticed the onlookers during a fight. Too busy focusing on the threats at hand. And she'd been just another face in the crowd. A pretty face, sure, along with her too-flushed, thoroughly dazzled companion. The companion was beautiful - too beautiful to be in a fight club; skin like blushing porcelain, hair like sun-soaked wheat, eyes that even in the dim light of the foundry he knew were the purest green. All evident at a glance. She was too pretty for Southwark, but not dressed well enough to be true middle class. And dressed incredibly impractically in a posey pink. Deliriously in love, too, if the eyelashes batted at the mountain of a man at her side meant anything.

But the other one, her colouring somehow lost in the shadows beyond the ring... He'd been concentrating on his instinct, sensing for the general positions of his opponents, if more might be jumping in to join the fight, but her motion made his vision refocus. Her eyes had widened, lips (thinner than her friend's, but lush nonetheless) had parted as though she might call out. Something had tickled at a far corner of his mind, but he'd been occupied with the meaning of her reaction, the sheer high of adrenaline and exertion rampaging through his system: the rush of a good brawl. He grinned his thanks even as he turned on his foes, thrashing them soundly.

It was only after the match, assessing his injuries, that he spotted the young woman again. Jacob had been taught manners at one point in his life (besides which, he had quite a bit of the usual post-fight maintenance to do) so he let himself take in her back - the hair that spilled over her shoulders, the muted shade of her dress (grey? blue?) - but then returned to his task. When she'd moved away, he'd glanced up, the motion catching his curious attention. Brownish blonde (blondish brown?) hair. Blue eyes. Somehow, despite the more reserved clothing, looking to be a bit more well-off - more refined - than her beautiful companion, who had by now wandered off to her sweetheart.

A polite nod, then it was time to tend to battered knuckles and the unfortunate graze of nails that had broken the skin of his chest. It had turned into quite the fight. His skin felt covered in grit and sweat and the omnipresent soot of the foundry, and his mouth a bit too bloody. Gulping down nearly a whole bottle of water, he began to unwrap the bandages on his hands. Not the worst. He uncorked some high-proof whiskey, pouring a bit over one hand. His jaw tightened a moment, but he refused to react to the sting of alcohol on open wounds. And he definitely _wasn't_ peeking just to see if his audience had witnessed his toughing out the pain as he glanced back up before switching hands.

He _was_ , however, perhaps a little too pleased to find her staring. His lips curled into a smirk that only widened as she glanced around in confusion, until he was full-on grinning when she managed to meet his eyes at last.

"I'm flattered, madam, truly."

She really was quite pretty, wasn't she? Subtly pretty. The blush that bloomed across her cheeks really suited her.

Then she did the thing.

One moment she was there, the next his eyes skipped past, redirected away from the sudden unnatural/ _too_ -natural blank impression of a person. A wave of disinterest quickly swelled within him, urging him to look somewhere else, think of something else; there was nothing to see, nothing to remember. But Jacob _did_ remember. Or he was starting to, at least. Something in his memory, blurred and shadowed.

Once more he relied on something besides his eyes, letting his Assassin senses pick out the figure before him. Shifting. Flickering. Fading and cutting in and out of the air itself: fascinating for how forcefully uninteresting it wanted to be. He set aside the makeshift antiseptic, leaning over the rails as he watched the gap in the air that might have been a person.

He let out a low whistle. "Impressive." How did she do it? Was this how Evie's ability worked? It couldn't be - not quite. His twin appeared differently in his Vision, in any case, more like an image refracted below the surface of water.

He drummed fingers against the boards, tapping out a faltering rhythm, wondering if she'd respond. She must assume he couldn't see her. And he couldn't, not really. But Jacob knew she was there. Stopping his percussion, he added, conversationally, the determined curiosity on his lips melting into something more casually pleasant; "Have we met?"

 _There._ His Vision adjusted, picking her out as a person of interest the way it did, and her silhouette was clear again.

He'd seen this before, he remembered it clearly now, and he'd seen it recently.

The girl in the city. The maid.

The eyes that scanned his face were actually quite lovely: a grey blue like clouds filled with rain, a colour that should be more memorable than it had been. The colour, the ability, reminded him of Evie - but mostly her expression: a passive annoyance at his mere existence. He just barely held back a snicker.

In another moment a fleeting, instantaneous thought flashed through his mind, wondering what he had found so entertaining; the creature before him was unremarkable - but then he remembered. And had to adjust his eyes _again_ , pulling the blurred features into focus even as she shook her head. This was going to get tiresome, he realised, but he'd be damned if he gave up now. Jacob was far too curious and far too stubborn for that.

"You're sure?" He almost wanted to laugh, his own confidence in his memory too clear on that expression she'd given him. Perhaps it was his Assassin abilities fending off whatever trick this was, perhaps it was just the familiarity of a look he'd been getting from his twin for the last twenty years. He was getting under her skin, and he liked it.

She nodded.

It was a game now, at least to him. Her denial, his assuredness. He struggled to keep a straight face, pulling back a bit from the boards. "Really? Because I could've sworn you insulted my impeccable fashion sense." Just remembering it - _are you wearing a_ _ **cravat**_ _?_ \- he was tapping a toe restlessly in his boot in an attempt to quell the urge to laugh. She really thought he'd forgotten? (Well, alright, he had, but not for long.)

As she slipped into full focus again, he absently admired the sharp look in her eyes, the cut of her jaw, the flush of heat colouring her skin. Then she ducked once more behind this supernatural veil of modesty, dulling every part of her. "I think you may have mistaken me for someone else, sir."

She was trying so _hard_. He should at least give her credit for the effort.

"You are _very_ good at that." The compliment was genuine, if given in a more casual manner than what might be appropriate for the extraordinary ability in question. He couldn't stop the grin breaking over his features, couldn't stop the playful tone pervading his words. "Tell me: do all the boys get this treatment, or am I special?"

Finally, _finally_ , she dropped the affect, though Jacob wasn't sure how intentional the lapse was. A soft cough caught in her throat, and one corner of his mouth cocked up a bit more, almost positive she was trying not to laugh.

"Please tell me I'm special," he added, teasingly.

A rush of satisfaction finally crested in him as the hint of a smile very briefly lit on her lips, something in her adjusting, relaxing perhaps, her body language opening up, turning toward him, and he felt relatively sure she wouldn't be disappearing again in the next minute or two. With that surety in mind, he let himself continue his post-fight clean up.

Disinfecting his other hand, he retrieved the medicinal ointment that had been a go-to since his training days, patting the greasy substance onto cuts, rubbing it into the rosy raw skin that wasn't quite broken enough to bleed. He glanced to her curiously, wondering if she'd respond. He knew the answer wouldn't be yes - she wasn't just hiding from _him_ \- but he _did_ hope he was special. That perhaps he was the only one seeing through it. Based on her expression, the way her fingers twitched, as though she was trying to hold something back, the small, tentative steps she took closer to him, he was optimistic. He tried not to seem quite so eager for her response as he re-bandaged the worst of his souvenirs.

"...You…" She looked delightfully perplexed, and he felt vindicated. So she _hadn't_ experienced something like this before. Good. He liked being the first.

Impulsively, he reached forward, offering a hand. "Jacob. Frye."

He was taken aback by the sudden disdain - amused as it was - that coloured her gaze. She was a _maid_ , right? Not some fine lady too good for an honest man's handshake. (He had a broad definition of 'honest.') Had he done something-? Ah. He spotted the shine of balm coating his damaged hands. Understandable, then. Didn't want to stain her lovely little gloves. Lips quirked up once more as he nodded, conceding that at least he'd made an effort. Besides, the way she looked at him - a single eyebrow arched: a rather brazen rejection - just added another facet to this mysterious character. It reminded him of her first words. This person who so clearly was not what she often pretended to be.

"You're… _something_ , Mister Frye," she finally capitulated.

There was that sparking glow of (likely undeserved) pride in his chest at her words, grinning unabashedly. "I'm taking that as a compliment," he informed her, tempted to return the exact same sentiment. She was _something_ , alright. Ally or enemy, he still wasn't sure. And neither was Jacob sure how much he _cared_.

Her smile was wry, sardonically amused as she let out a soft chuckle, searching out someone in the crowd (her beautiful companion, no doubt). There was something in the way her expression changed - something playfully vicious toying at the corners of her lips, a sharp glint in her too-observant eyes - that belied the meek and modest persona she'd worn earlier. From the excessively polite avoidances she'd made, she now spoke with an almost-teasing forthrightness he very much enjoyed. "It wasn't meant as one."

This was an invitation to banter, and he accepted readily. It was hard not to place a hand over his chest as he scoffed false affrontedness, features a pantomime of hurt. "You wound me, madam."

She seemed preoccupied with one thought or another as the word slipped from her tongue: "Miss."

It was like a short static shock on his skin - though not at all unpleasant - his brows lifting with a touch of delight at the implication of her correction. He couldn't stop the reflexive smirk on his lips, growing stronger as she quickly cleared her throat and turned away, seeming to realise just how far she'd slipped from her modest facade. A _miss_ , eh? Even if she was as much of a stickler for propriety as she obviously wished to seem, the blush that had crept over her skin made it clear he wasn't wrong interpreting a secondary motive - conscious or unconscious - to her interjection.

He knew he was pressing his luck even as he leaned forward again, resting on the forearms perched on the fighting ring. "Miss…?"

She was walking away, but he spotted a small smile on the brief glimpse of her lips as she replied, flippantly, barely angling her words over her shoulder: "Congratulations on your win, Mister Frye."


	3. notorious

_A/N: To be honest this still feels unfinished to me? But it's just kinda a fun side project (I guess all of my fics are, though...) so I figured I needed to just let go and post it. Especially since I already started a later scene and got a couple pages of that bit written. I also realized I kinda like the struggle of coming up with chapter titles for this. Cause, y'know... first impressions. I dunno. It was satisfying. Also: at the moment this is FFnet exclusive, so that's kinda fun._

* * *

"Not saying you want trouble, are you?"

Elizabeth kept her eyes on the ground, slowing her pace. They were only a bit further up the way, and she didn't dare look to see just who it was. Small posture, meek affect, she blended in to the background, shifting further and further right until she'd ducked into an entryway of a shop, as though reading the bills posted in the windows. She could still hear the Blighters, the soft repetitive noise of hands pushing their victim back and forth, the way she'd seen them do before.

"Look here, I have customers that-"

"Shut it." The demand went hand in hand with a thick thudding slap of skin on skin, a cry of pain. "Thought we made it clear that you'd be going through the Blighters from now on. You want your shipments coming and going safe and sound like, you hire _us_."

The man's voice was hissed, but apparently more from anger than pain. "Your prices are _exorbitant_. You know what that means? It means you charge _too damn much_ -" His voice was cut off by a thump and sudden whimper.

"You want your goods to stay good?"

"You're mad." He was wheezing, but clearly hadn't given up. "The whole bloody lot of you."

Breath was frozen in Elizabeth's chest as she heard a new voice speak up, and she pressed herself as far into the little alcove as she could, damning her stupid skirts, trying to remember just how many Blighters had been ahead of her. Three? Four? If she turned to leave now, there was no way they wouldn't see her. Hopefully they'd be heading away the opposite direction.

"You know why they call her Bloody Nora?" Elizabeth did.

Someone spat, and based on the sudden noise of blades being drawn, she assumed it was the merchant. His choked and muffled wail of pain seemed to support that theory as well.

"This is a warning. Next time, it will be two. Then three. Tell me: would you prefer to start with them all on the left, or alternate hands?"

Quick wet gasps hissed through clenched teeth, and Elizabeth was fairly sure she knew precisely what had happened. Her pulse hammered high and tight in her throat, trying not to picture the assuredly gruesome mess that would be the man's left hand. Everything had faded to a muted wash of colour as she focused on staying small, quiet, and still. And conscious. That would be ideal. _Keep breathing. Don't faint._

In an instant there was a _shing_ of metal on metal, followed by a wet gurgle. A cry of surprise from someone other than the Blighters' victim. Elizabeth found herself resting a hand against the wall behind her, trying to stay on her feet. She'd never been this close to such a skirmish, not something so lethal.

"What-"

Thuds and cracks and the briefest noises of struggle, all culminated in at least one body falling to the ground. She doubted a single Blighter remained conscious - or even breathing.

"Thank- ...thank you."

There was a piercing whistle and she quickly turned her face further from the noise to peer through the closed shop window as the clatter of hooves filled the street behind her, obscuring the words spoken in a low murmur from where the merchant had voiced his thanks. A few more noises she could reasonably interpret as a man with nine fingers entering a hastily-called carriage, and that very same carriage being driven away posthaste, and then all seemed to have settled.

Excepting not two minutes later when a lady's shriek pierced the air.

Her eyes fluttered closed with frustration as Elizabeth once more steeled herself to leave her hiding place. She'd _finally_ gotten her bearings, and now there was the (disconcertingly) usual hubub about the brand new corpses in the street.

Christ, how was this the _usual_ now?

Chewing at her bottom lip, she clenched fingers in the fabric at her sides as she slipped back out and down the street the way she'd come, not even glancing back to the scene of the crime. She didn't want to see it. A little inconvenience to retrace her steps a few blocks and take a different route seemed like a small price to pay for a moment of blissful ignorance.

She'd barely gone half a block when gunshots rang out through the air, quickly followed by the hysterical whinnying of terrified carriage horses, and the thundering racket as traffic surged one way or another, utter chaos sprouting from the direction she'd planned on detouring.

 _Again?_ More of this? She couldn't deny the surge of sheer disappointment. What a way to spend her day off, watching her city be terrorised by gang violence.

Well, what else was there to do but turn a blind eye, pivot on her heel and head down the nearest back alley in the hopes of cutting through to an area a bit less criminally inclined.

She hadn't expected to see him again so soon.

"Hello hello." His smile was at a shockingly low smirk-to-grin ratio, apparently recognising Elizabeth immediately despite having barely met her eyes before she'd looked away.

"Mr. Frye." The words were low, demure, delivered with a soft nod as she tried so hard to maintain her appearance of 'too boring to bother with' while in the crowded streets. It was somehow easier and more difficult in such surroundings, mostly difficult when trying to move.

Even as she ducked her head and passed by into the alley, the man fell into step with her easily.

"Enjoying the city this fine afternoon?"

Flicking her gaze to his face, Elizabeth immediately noted his cheeky smirk was back. A fine afternoon, indeed. Was _he_ enjoying this chaos? "Hm." She quickly glanced back to the ground, a sardonic thread weaving through her otherwise mildly murmured words, almost silent under her breath. "Yes, well, can't go wrong with a bit of murder and mayhem, can you?"

She hadn't said it for his ears, but if his bark of laughter was anything to go by, he'd heard her loud and clear regardless. "No you certainly cannot," he mused, shoving hands into the pockets of his coat as he smiled up to the sky.

Steps faltering, Elizabeth let Mr. Frye move on without her, dropping away and allowing herself to stare fully at his back once he wasn't looking. There was that nagging suspicion, newly taken root, that he was far closer to this issue than she'd initially anticipated. And that just wouldn't do. She wanted as far away from this danger as possible.

Turning silently, she began to head back toward the street, once more running - or, well, _determinedly strolling_ \- away from her problems, slipping on the camouflage with which she'd become so adept.

It was either too late, or her tricks simply didn't work so well on horses or the humans driving them, because she was very nearly trampled into the cobbles by an oncoming carriage, driven by a woman in Rook greens. The shout of surprise was startling, as was the heavy hand grasping her shoulder and hauling her out of the street, but Elizabeth swallowed the squeak of shock that tried to escape her throat, eyes going wide instead, heart suddenly far too loud in her ears as the vehicle passed inches from her face, the driver letting out a stream of curses.

" _Oi!_ An apology!"

It took her a second to regain her faculties, but she very quickly pulled away from the man's grip, taking a few shaky steps back and away even as she heard the carriage slowing. It was only a few feet up the road when the driver called back toward them: "Apologies, Mr. Frye. Miss."

Blinking back to her senses, Elizabeth watched this _Jacob Frye_ with a hastily guarded gaze. They knew him. They respected him. And that could mean nothing good. Her words were low and verging on a mumble as her eyes hit the pavement again. "Thank you, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me…" She was several feet down the road before she looked up once more.

She'd known something was off. Usually, the method that let her melt away, it had a _feeling_. Like floating in lukewarm water - not particularly _pleasant_ , but comforting nonetheless. And it was conspicuously absent.

Three Blighters stood at the corner she approached, and she was far too aware that they could see her. Not only could they see her; they were actively noticing. It was an experience she'd tried to avoid, and for it to be happening _now_ of all times, piling misfortune upon misfortune, had Elizabeth quite cross. She stumbled over her own feet, slowing her pace, and watched cautiously as the woman on point straightened, something sparking in her eyes that made Elizabeth incredibly uneasy.

The Blighter hardly taken one step closer before all three of them stiffened, posture adjusting to something more defensive, eyes all moving at once to stare past Elizabeth.

"Please, Miss. Allow me to escort you home."

Elizabeth didn't look away from the three Blighters, even as she felt him coming up behind her. Oh this was bad. Very very bad. Respected by Rooks, feared by Blighters - and now he'd somehow marked her out as well? She craved the safety of anonymity again. But it didn't seem to be in the cards.

"Mr. Frye…" The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she risked turning her back to the gang members so she might gracefully decline the man's offer. He wasn't looking at her, staring instead with a hard challenge in his gaze at the red-clad toughs, lips a small grim smile. Christ, he was going to get himself killed with an attitude like that.

After a moment of hesitation, Elizabeth tried to stifle her exasperated sigh. "Fine."

He'd already taken an imposing step toward the Blighters when she grabbed at his sleeve, tightening her grip on his forearm into something resembling an appropriate escorting position, planting her feet as she might to hold back a particularly snappish dog. Heat rose to her cheeks at the familiarity of the action, and the motion itself seemed enough to snap Mr. Frye from his predatory glare, instead glancing to her with surprise. "I'm quite fond of this dress; I'd hate to see it bloodied," she explained drily, shooting him a sharp look.

Apparently Elizabeth's presence on his arm curtailed any more violent impulses, as he settled for a sharp-toothed warning smirk at the gang who silently drifted out of their path so the two might pass.

She didn't breathe until the trio was a full block behind them, and when she did she quickly dropped his arm. "You're a madman, Mr. Frye." It was hard to cover the irritation in her tone.

He was grinning. "Call me Jacob."

Elizabeth stopped short, just barely stopping herself putting her hands on her hips like she used to when dealing with younger children. "I most certainly will not."

His lips pursed, and she was about 80% sure he was trying not to laugh at her, his eyes bright and jaw twitching.

She glared right back, heart rate still uncomfortably high, still thoroughly shaken from the morning's events. "I can't _believe_ you'd drag me into something like this," she grumbled, stabbing a finger into his chest accusingly. "You don't even know me!"

There was no way for him to hide the smirk hooking up the corner of his mouth as he glanced down at her (and he wasn't even that much taller, damn it, how could he manage an expression like _that_ ), raising an amused brow. "Careful, love, don't want to attract any unwanted attention."

At his warning Elizabeth's posture adjusted automatically, pulling away, adopting that bland and proper facade she was all too used to, though her suspicious glare didn't lessen a bit. "You seem to do more than enough of that for the both of us."

He surveyed the area calmly, and she thought she sensed a flash in his gaze, like he was looking with more than just his eyes, before they rested on Elizabeth again, clear. His cocky attitude had mellowed a bit, tempered with the smallest dash of humility. "And I do apologise for that," he inclined his head graciously.

Good.

"...But as it seems the damage is done, it's only proper I ensure your safe return home. Please."

Elizabeth chewed her lip, eyes still narrowed at the man even as traffic began to flow as usual once more, the two of them melting into the bustle of the streets again. That feeling of liquid anonymity was comforting, though she felt the smallest seam in it - the smallest exception being made for the man who stood before her. Still, she was lost to the crowd. Perhaps that was why she relented. "No fighting," she insisted, strictly. "No brawls, no scrapes, and dear god no carriage chases."

"You think so little of me…" He shook his head with a chuckle. "Fine;" he smirked, "No fun." The laugh was louder at her affronted expression. "I kid, I kid- just a walk, no trouble."

There was a long silence as they resumed their stroll back to Elizabeth's employer's residence, her brow furrowed at the ground. She hadn't initially planned to return so early, but at this point…

"...Breathe, love, you're alright." Mr. Frye's words were a murmur - chosen to be comforting, she assumed - and she suspected he felt some guilt for his teasing.

Heat rushed up her neck, colouring her cheeks, though it was mostly discomfort that he'd assume she'd need such a thing. Was it that obvious, how rattled she was? "It's never been this bad before. Not in my experience. Not here," she admitted quietly, voice hard with firmly controlled anxiety. "If it was Southwark or Whitechapel, the waterfront - hell, even Lambeth I might understand…" But this was the City proper, this was wide boulevards and middle-class homes, and more proper stores than factories. Elizabeth had come here thinking it would be safer.

"Always darkest before day dawns and all that."

How could he be so flippant? Elizabeth hummed her ambivalence, and her words came out a dry murmur, more to herself than to him. "One must wonder who on earth said that and how they could _possibly_ believe it true."

There was a soft huff of laughter before they settled into a brief - and surprisingly amiable - silence. His voice was a curious half-accusation when he spoke again. "You're not from Southwark."

She shot him a sidelong glance, willing to set aside her worries for his offered distraction. "I'm not?" Mild innocence coloured her tone, even as she felt a touch of reluctant amusement at the statement. He was right, of course. But she certainly wasn't born on _these_ streets. She'd sooner claim Southwark her home than the City borough.

"You don't _sound_ like you're from Southwark," he amended.

 _Ma would be so proud_. A fleeting glance up and Elizabeth looked away soon after catching his eyes. Had anyone ever watched her with such unabashed interest before? She didn't think she'd ever let them. It was… not as bad as she'd expected. "Neither do you," she pointed out, loftily.

"'Cos I'm not." He was smirking - though he always was, wasn't he? Always entertained by something or other. "Crawley."

She raised doubtful brows. He may not have the same practiced diction she'd cultivated, but there was a bit of it in his speech. Then again she hadn't met many people from outside of London.

"...And my father imposed elocution on us." There was a sheepish tilt to his grin, speech almost mockingly affected as he rolled his eyes.

"Us?" Elizabeth's interest was polite but genuine as she glanced up again, watching him in profile from under lowered lashes. In a moment she wondered what this Mr. Frye had been like as a boy. Not an older member of the family, surely. A younger brother or cousin. He reminded her too much of those younger children - hungry mouths and grabby hands, too impatient and too reckless, the ones she'd been stuck keeping in line.

"My sister and me." He'd been watching the walk before them, but now he turned to catch her eyes again and she once more quickly looked away. "You'd like her."

She hadn't expected the warmth in his tone. If she hadn't seen him pummel twenty men she would've scoffed at how quick he was to trust, how dangerous it was to be so familiar, so open with strangers. But he could clearly take care of himself. Elizabeth wondered if this was how Emma felt walking with William - shielded in a bubble of bizarre safety. For once she'd stopped scanning for gang colours, and she hadn't even realised it. _Stupid._ _She_ shouldn't trust so easily.

...Still. It was hard to remind herself to be on edge, her tone coming out more playfully teasing than she'd intended. "And how would you know what I'd like, Mr. Frye?" Was she _flirting_? She very well might be, now that she thought on it. Damn it. Emma would be absolutely delighted.

He chuckled. "Fine: _she'd_ like _you_. That bit you do - your little disappearing act."

Suspicious eyes darted to the man at her side, his hands suddenly thrust deep in his pockets as he turned an unassuming gaze to the sky in a show of innocence. "Hm." She pursed her lips, finding it far easier to watch him, to study a face built for impudence, when he wasn't watching her right back. "It hasn't seemed to be working as of late," she deadpanned.

A grin flashed before he tamed it to something more appropriately reserved. "If you're referring to me, I am honoured. And I can assure you: I'm an outlier."

 _Mmhm. Right._ "I'm sure you like to think of yourself as one." She couldn't help the smirk that teased at the corners of her mouth, her words overly sweet with the smallest bite of condescension.

"First the accent and now I can't quite pinpoint the _attitude_ either." It was a playful accusation, only making her smirk more prominent.

Elizabeth could practically feel her tongue sharpening, and it was delightful. "Don't all RP accents come with instilled superiority?" Her eyes flicked over the man at her side, teasing, intrigued by this reading he was attempting.

"Yes, but born int-" He stopped himself, fingers snapping at the air in sudden epiphany. "Nevermind, I've got it."

"Oh you have, have you?" It was more smile than smirk now, brows lifted in playful challenge.

"Working in a house like that, it's most definitely a requirement to have a bit of _holier-than-thou_ ," he jibed, and she shot him an admonishing look. "The question is only which came first: the job or the accent."

Teeth nipped at her lip as Elizabeth tried not to smile. A touch of wicked glee coloured her lofty response. "First impressions are important, Mr. Frye, but they can be deceiving. For instance: my first impression of _you_ included the word _gentleman_."

A very _un_ gentlemanly snort passed his throat, but he otherwise ignored the barb. "So: born in Southwark, picked up the RP for a job?"

"If you like." She had to feel a bit smug: she hid her roots well. "What about you?" she redirected, "What brought you here from Crawley?"

"A-" He cocked his head, as though amused by how he might answer the question, finally settling on: "A job."

Oh how vague. She shot him the incredulous look such a response deserved. He just grinned.

"Well…" The word was low and drawn out, somehow both relenting and cajoling at the same time; half sheepish and all too charming. "Doesn't every young man deserve a chance to seek his fortune?"

"A fortune gained by stealing from bankers' wives?" Elizabeth proposed, scepticism colouring her otherwise innocent tone.

His lips made a half-considering pout, as he shrugged. "A fortune gained alongside the glory of prizefighting?" he suggested.

"And the Blighters chasing after your carriage, that's part of... the prize fights?"

"Ah." Now he really did look sheepish. At least a bit. "Well, no," he admitted. "But I can assure you that cargo found a much nicer home."

Her face snapped to fix narrowed eyes on her companion. "Cargo?" When she'd seen him he'd been on a coach, no cargo in sight.

The crooked smile was back. Like a child caught lying. "...When was this?"

"This happens regularly for you?" Right. Of course. Mr. Frye had that charming roguish air - she already knew of his sticky fingers - of _course_ he was a full-time thief. How could she have ever let herself forget it.

"A man's got to keep food on the table, Miss."

She shook her head, bemused. "Thievin' and boxin' does that for you, then?"

"Ha!" He jabbed a finger towards her in sudden triumph, pulling his gesture back just before he would actually touch her, hand curling into a fist as though suddenly remembering to hold back any violence near her person. "That, there it is."

"What?" Elizabeth had to admit it _was_ a bit entertaining, seeing this quick turn of joy.

"' _What'_ -" He scoffed. "There's the streets in you." Again he jabbed, but kept his hands close to himself, a polite distance away even when he obviously wished to point out his success in the most blatant manner possible.

There was no hiding the smirk that quickly morphed into a grin as she shook her head, glancing to her feet, trying to reprimand herself. After a moment, catching the smug smirk of her companion in the corner of her vision, she trained her face to something a bit more subdued. Still, a wry smile curled her lips. "You're a bad influence, Mr. Frye."

His grin was sharp and wolfish and incredibly self-satisfied: "Oh, very."

* * *

A/N: Thanks to Shy911 for the inaugural review ^^ Always interested in what people think of this... collection? Of snippets? And also the character. I don't do a ton of OCs lately, so I'm curious to know what people think. Shoot me a review?


	4. mad and maddening

_A/N: I had way too much fun with this chapter. I started it on a whim, filed it under brainstorming, expecting to insert it somewhere later in the story, but then I just kept writing and - well, the whole thing is basically a series of snippets, so I allowed myself to skip forward a bit without a ton of exposition. I'm not mad about it._

* * *

He was waiting for her as she entered her mistress's room. Grinning. "Lizzie."

Elizabeth froze for just a moment before she quickly stepped in and closed the door behind her, frowning. She tried to keep her voice even, if edged with wariness, a plethora of thoughts suddenly buzzing in her head. "...Mr. Frye." Why was he here? How did he know her name? What was he- _oh god_ \- Her heart leapt to her throat with a rush of anxiety, eyes widening before she glared. "You could've been _caught_ ," she hissed, stepping forward, glancing around the room as if she might spot something amiss. "I could've been _anyone_!"

How dare he laugh like that. "No you couldn't have."

Nothing out of place, save for the open window - no drawers disturbed or trunks left open. It didn't mean he hadn't stolen something. Maybe something small? She took another step toward him, scanning his person quickly, checking for suspicious glints of jewelry or trinkets spilling from his pockets - damn it, why did that stupid top hat suit him so well? " _Yes_ I could," she insisted, crossly. Christ, why was she worried for _him_ \- her job was on the line, too, if things went missing, and that meant the roof over her head and the food in her belly.

His step forward was quick and quieter than she would've expected from a man of his build. The fingers - skin and the leather edges of his glove - brushing her chin made her jump then freeze as he lifted her face, watching her with amusement. "No." His voice was a low murmur and he was _far_ closer than he should be, his eyes too intensely interested. "You really couldn't."

She'd stopped breathing. As soon as she realised that fact she blinked, swallowing hard, and jerked her face from his hold, eyes shooting to the floor. She felt the too-warm flush on her cheeks soothed by that cooling sense of blankness that came with what he'd called her _disappearing act_. It was a relief to be nothing for a moment. To take a breath without his eyes on her. It let her snap back to her senses.

" _Lizzie_ ," he whined, dropping his hand and rolling his head back in exasperation, making no attempt to stay quiet. "You're making my head hurt, love, please come-"

"If you would keep your voice _down_ , Mr. Frye." Her voice was a tense whisper, watching him warily, too distracted to keep her meek facade. Half of her was hyper aware of the last place she'd seen Mrs Hanover the housekeeper (speaking with the cook, discussing their cold storage; three floors below), and half was coming up blank trying to theorise on why the thief was here.

His head was still tipped back, but she saw the smile twist his lips as he lazily rolled it forward again, fixing her with a look that was too sharp for her taste. There was a fire in it, but not the sort she may have expected based on his earlier closeness. No, this was a violent chaos, burning to be free. "Make me."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed in confusion. There was a beat of silence.

" _How?_ " She made no attempt to hide the utter bafflement in her voice.

The man smirked. Like she should know what _that_ meant?

"You are a prizefighting champion, sir," she reminded him, shortly. Wasn't this obvious? "I am a maid. I cannot _make_ you do anything, merely ask." She shook her head, unsure what exactly he expected of her. "And that is what I am doing."

Eyes narrowed in playful suspicion as he took a swaggering step toward her, and she almost immediately took a step back. "A maid." It wasn't a question, but the phrase was still steeped in scepticism.

What on earth was he getting at? "...Yes?" Another step forward, another step back. Her skin had broken out in gooseflesh: something was not right. Why was he coming at her like this?

"Your cover is good, I'll give you that."

"Cover?" The question was a perplexed murmur, and he promptly ignored it.

"Who do you _really_ work for, sweetheart?" He spoke smoothly, continuing to move forward, something in his tone coaxing her for an answer she wasn't sure how to give.

Elizabeth's face flushed, anger battling with caution, all shaded with an echoing frustration at how senseless his words were. And calling her _sweetheart_ like that- "You are too informal, Mr. Frye!" she snapped, struggling to keep her voice low as she demanded, "And I would have you speak plainly, _if you will_."

"Plain-?" Seeming to tire of bickering, he sighed and pulled back, rolling his eyes. "Fine." There was a quiet _click-shing_ as he presented her a forearm, a thin blade sliding from the gauntlet he wore: "Let's have at it, then."

The words had hardly left his lips before he swung, a heavy fist going straight for her head.

She was no fighter.

Elizabeth barely managed to stumble back, falling to the floor with wide eyes, swallowing her shocked cry. Cringing away, hands lifted defensively, she couldn't even calm herself enough for her usual tricks, eyes scrunched up and turned to the floor as she braced for a blow, grimacing.

No blow came.

Her heart was racing like a frightened rabbit, a fluttering pitter-patter shallow in her chest, legs tangled before her, a mess of fabric and trembling limbs. _Breathe_. She was shaking. Christ, she couldn't _stop_ shaking. _Get a hold of yourself, woman._ Her jaw ached, fused shut by a stubborn refusal to shout, her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. It felt like forever, but must've only been a few seconds before she could focus enough to slip on an attempt at her defensive modesty.

The choked noise from his throat - too loud in the suddenly silent room - broke her concentration almost immediately, eyes snapping to him, as tense as she'd ever been in her life.

He at least had the decency to look almost as shocked as her. The combat stance was gone, though the blade still protruded from the device on his arm.

She watched the pink rising under his skin.

"Ah." He cleared his throat hard, shifting nervously on his feet. "Well." The shock was briefly replaced by dumbfounded confusion, cocking his head at her, lips parting as though he might ask a question before his mouth snapped shut again. "...Right." He blinked several times, looking away, adjusting back to a more casual position, blade sliding away once more, brow furrowed as he seemed to reconcile this new information.

Elizabeth simply watched, dumbfounded.

He lifted a finger, as though to make an interjection to a conversation that was most definitely not happening. "So-" Down it went again, as he contemplated his words. Finally, he looked at her again. "So you're not a member of the Order?" He sounded practically hopeful, as though she might correct him.

She wasn't sure when her hands had lowered, but now she just stared at the man before her, stunned. "...Order?" she asked weakly.

He fidgeted, ears going red even as he kept his mostly confident posture. "And not part of the Brotherhood?" There was that same hope again. It was like he expected her to have some kind of sudden realisation.

What on _earth_ … Elizabeth wracked her brain for his meaning. "Is that… a union thing?"

He let out a weak huff of amusement, but she couldn't bring herself to join - far too aware of a hidden blade that could spring out at half a second's notice. As he noticed her silence, he also fell quiet. Gradually his face grew more serious, regret clear in the firm line of his lips. He took a few steps toward her and Elizabeth winced as he lowered a hand. Hazel eyes skirted away from hers - _good, he should be ashamed_ \- as he lowered himself to one knee. The hand he offered was unarmed.

"Miss Boone, I believe I owe you an apology."

The air hung heavy in the silence as she stared at him in disbelief, her head spinning. Finally, she came at least somewhat to her senses. Her gaping mouth snapped shut and she slapped his offered hand away, suddenly feeling a fury. A fury that threatened her better sense to not push the buttons of a man with a hidden blade. "You're _damn_ right you do!" She hated how shrill her voice was as she struggled to her feet without his help, tinny with a hysteria that, while understandable, was still humiliating. "You could've _killed_ me!"

His lips twisted as his eyes darted away again, his tone not nearly as apologetic as he'd claimed. "To be fair, I expected you to fight back."

"With _what?!_ "

He'd darted his eyes back to her, scanning over her figure like he was trying to find an answer himself, lips parted as though he might make some undoubtedly foolish attempt to argue his case, but then they both heard it.

"Miss Boone? Is that you? Are you alright, dear?"

Her heart was once more painfully lodged in her throat, a series of options flicking through her head, calculating just how likely Mrs. Hanover was to seek her out regardless of her answer. She could call out, assure the woman of her well-being, but undoubtedly the housekeeper would still come find her. And would that be so bad? Perhaps that was the best way to ensure Mr. Frye's departure. After all, it seemed (at least at this point) that he was reluctant to harm her. And if he wanted to mince words with the housekeeper, he was welcome to it as long as she was in the clear. _Would_ she be in the clear? Did she even have the time to think on it?

She reached for the doorknob, prepared to warn of the intruder, to bring the attention she so often avoided, but apparently Mr. Frye had made his decision just a bit quicker. A hand clamped down over her mouth, reining her whole body back to collide with his, at the same moment that an arm wrapped around her torso, pinning her arms to her side even as she tried to reach up to pry his fingers away from her lips.

So she couldn't reach the hand over her mouth, fine. Elizabeth hesitated, too aware that she could still reach his other arm, could still try to wrestle herself free. But she wasn't a fighter, she knew she wasn't a fighter, and he was- _god_ , he was; she could _feel_ it even clearer than she'd seen with her own eyes, could feel the sheer power of his body at her back. Every inch of her was on high alert, even as she tried to think rationally, to set aside that first chaotic instinct of fear. Hadn't he just been apologising? Shouldn't that mean she wasn't in danger? But then why-

"I don't want to hurt you, I just want to talk." His voice was a low murmur and-

-and his breath was hot against her ear, each syllable vibrating on her skin.

...It was… peculiar.

She did not appreciate the sudden drip of uncertainty gradually flooding her body.

There were footsteps from beyond the closed door, someone already halfway up the stairs; she'd memorised that creaky step within her first week of service.

"Key?"

What? An expression of confusion furrowed her brow, trying to interpret his- _oh_. There was one to these rooms, yes, but Elizabeth didn't know where her mistress kept it. They weren't kept locked. She shook her head. The movement brushed her cheek against his nose, his lips making the briefest contact with her jaw. Christ, she hadn't been this close to a man in… well, since Papa died. And that had been a _very_ different type of embrace from… whatever this was. When had her mouth gone so dry? Damn it, _focus_.

The brief moment of hesitation in his movements made her wary, but then he seemed to have made a decision.

It happened in a flash. Her squeak of indignant alarm and pain was stifled by his hand as he yanked an arm behind her (not as hard as he'd manhandled his competitors in the ring, but still, it wasn't exactly _pleasant_ ) and the next thing she knew she was in her mistress's closet, thoroughly disoriented.

 _Not even the dressing room? Or the bathroom? You had to pick_ this _?_

Of all the doors, he'd chosen the one leading to the smallest space. And of course he'd joined her. _Of course_. Sod the concept of propriety or scandal, why not cram oneself into extremely close quarters with a woman he'd barely met. "If you'd asked-" Fingers pressed against her lips, silencing her far more politely than the first time. He'd let go of her arm as well. _I could've told you which room had an exit, you dolt._ But she didn't protest.

There was the sound of a door opening, but not the one she'd expected. So the housekeeper was checking the linen closet first - fair, Elizabeth often changed sheets as part of her duties. But that just meant a longer wait. Here. With _him_.

Finally taking a moment to breathe, she was suddenly incredibly aware of their position.

It was too dark to see him at first, thank god, but she could imagine well enough, could feel the wood of the closet door against her back and the tension in his wrist where it nestled into the skirts against her hip, hand tight on the handle to keep the door closed. He was close. Very close. Knowing the size of this closet she suspected he may actually be putting himself in some amount of pain to keep from being even _closer_. A soft grunt of discomfort seemed to confirm her theory, as did his slight shift forward. That would be the hooks at the back, undoubtedly digging into him. Despite her wish to, she didn't voice the mandatory objections, mindful of the calloused fingertips on her lips. At this point she'd be in just as much trouble as him if they were caught. More, even.

Elizabeth's eyes were just adjusting to the thin stream of light peeking under the crack in the door (hardly much to see by, but she was getting vague outlines) when she heard a soft clacking. She strained, as if opening her eyes even wider in the dark would somehow allow her to see what-

She caught the tiny light reflected on the metal of the offending hanger in the practically empty closet, half-hidden by what she could reasonably assume was his shoulder, watching it nervously as it swung. He'd hit it, then. She couldn't exactly blame him, given the small space and his own rather bulky form. She wanted to, though. Especially as he shifted and the clack came again.

Her lips pursed, but she held back the admonishment, instead reaching past him, stilling the movement with a firm hand. She'd had to lean forward to do it, and now thought she might be regretting that choice, as the movement had slipped his fingers down her lips, pressed herself a bit closer to him, draping her arm against his chest, and she realised too late that letting go now would just send it clattering once more.

He shifted again, and she could sense him looking down at her even if she couldn't see his eyes. There was a creak as the door to her lady's bedroom opened, and Elizabeth tried not to breathe. Fingers slipped until they cupped her chin, his thumb brushing over her lips like a warning she didn't need. She had no intention of speaking, of being caught. In fact, it would probably be better if she just…

It was hard to do in such a position, but if she set her mind to it… Gradually she felt herself settle into the proper demeanor - awkward with her hand propped over his shoulder, but achievable - and slipped into that practiced modesty that—

His hand tightened on her chin, face ducking beside hers as a soft, barely breathed, " _Ss,_ " slipped through gritted teeth.

Was he shushing her? But she hadn't made any noise. It was a silent trick, just a… Ah. Right. He'd said it before. He said it _made his head hurt_ , but she didn't understand how that could be true. But here he was, suddenly far tenser than he'd been a moment ago, crowding into her space with an air of frustrated confusion. _Stop_. He'd wanted to say stop, that must've been it. A plea.

She dropped her attempt immediately, half fascinated and half guilty. She'd never seen someone react to her… whatever it was… like that before. As soon as she stopped he let out a short breath, his grip loosening, the tensed muscles of his arms relaxing. " _Thhh._ " Again, barely breathed, a silent sound of mostly air that tickled her ear. _Thank you_. Well, at least he was appreciative.

It was her turn to tense - her free hand lifting and nervously bumping into the fabric of Mr. Frye's coat (and to his credit, he held quite still) - as the door barely two feet from their hiding place creaked open. The bathroom. So Mrs. Hanover _was_ checking the full rooms. Elizabeth grudgingly admitted perhaps the closet had been the best choice after all.

It felt like ages, though she knew it was barely a couple minutes, waiting for the housekeeper to make her search. As she heard the woman entering the dressing room, Elizabeth had the sudden realisation that _he hadn't moved away_. He'd relaxed, yes, but his face was still close beside hers, his breath still-

-still licking down her neck. A quick stream of curses slipped through her mind as she stiffened to keep from shivering. There was the smallest huff of air - of _laughter_ \- and she quickly released the hold she'd reflexively taken on his waistcoat. When had her hand slipped past his jacket? Oh god. And of course now he could probably feel the heat from her face even if he couldn't see her glowing red. She could hear the pounding of blood in her ears she was blushing so hard. She felt the itch in her throat, that nervous need to cough, to shed the tension, to do _something_ , but she had to stay silent. Instead she swallowed hard and pursed her lips, nibbling at one for a moment.

That had been a mistake. That hadn't helped at _all_ \- on the contrary, her lips were suddenly _more_ sensitive to his touch. Bad idea. And _of course_ his thumb still brushed her mouth, _of course_ it did, and she swore he was grinning, she swore it. But she need only endure this closeness just a moment more. One more moment.

This was ridiculous. She should be outraged at the impertinence. Maybe she _would've_ been, if she truly was who she pretended to be. If she hadn't grown up seeing lads like him. Worse than him, really - less polite, less respectful. Compared to what she'd witnessed in the east end, from flirtations to harassments, Mr. Frye was a catch. Even if he was a thief. At least he was a good one.

But damn it, she was better than that now. She was moving up in the world, had been ever since they'd left Whitechapel. _Respectable_. And respectable young women didn't cosy up with thieves in dark closets.

And how could she have forgotten how he had _very near killed her_ just minutes ago?!

Perhaps she couldn't let go of the hanger just yet, but she withdrew her other hand from his chest, balling it into a fist at her side as she reminded herself of her righteous indignation.

It was irritatingly hard to hold on to.

He was too easy to make exceptions for, and she had to stop doing so.

The sound of his throat clearing, subtle as it was, was too loud so close to her ear. Blinking her thoughts back to the present, Elizabeth realised with a start that the housekeeper had moved on. His thumb had dropped from her lips, though his fingers still brushed her chin.

"I think we're in the clear." Still, his voice was a barely-breathed whisper.

"Right." _No, not right, think before you speak._ Realising her mistake she hurriedly - awkwardly - crossed her arm between them to stop his hand on the door handle as he shifted to open it. "Wait! Did she leave the door to the bedroom open?" If she did, they'd still need to tiptoe about until she was back down a floor, until they could close it again.

There was a pause, but when he whispered again it sounded at least partially amused. "How would I know?"

She tried to ignore the way his hand brushed her cheek, tracing her jaw too delicately for such calloused digits, like his fingers couldn't keep still. _Too familiar_ , he was far too familiar. "Well did you _hear_ it?"

Again, a pause. His voice and his wandering fingers, lighting against her cheekbone. She thought he might be censoring himself, but she wasn't sure. Perhaps he was just trying to remember. "...Yes." This time it was louder than a whisper, more confident, though still low, and - Christ, she hadn't realised she'd be able to _feel_ the timbre of his voice, that was… that was different.

Surely there was something she should say in response. Some kind of confirmation. Damn it all, he was distracting. As his touch left her face she thought she'd seen the last of it, but he'd only drawn away to reach back, taking a firm hold of her wrist, reminding her to let go of the silly hanger. And- Eyes narrowed in suspicion, even in the dark. He was doing that on purpose, wasn't he? Guiding her hand down his chest like that. Her fingers tensed, but he made no move further down his torso. Good. She didn't know what to expect from the cheeky bastard.

They were still too close. She should say something. Scold him. She should really pull her hand away.

She should.

...So why wasn't she?

Her mind went blank for a moment as he leaned closer, practically pressing her against the door, both arms now trapped in the rapidly diminishing space between their bodies. At least his lips weren't quite so close to her ear this time, his smirk audible and the words a half-singsong warning spoken above her head: "Careful, now."

Careful-?

The door opened suddenly and she stumbled back, still flustered, barely able to steady herself before she might fall. She bit her tongue to keep the curse from her lips, glaring at the man who now strolled leisurely from their hiding spot. He was giving her a look - amused, but still with that touch of disbelief he'd had before. "Huh. You really _aren't_ trained, are you?"

"Trained." The word was flat as she struggled to push away those niggling thoughts of _too close_ in favour of the righteous indignation she really should be focused on.

Mr. Frye glanced away, shrugging and flapping his hand noncommittally. "You know."

Alright. Enough was enough. Elizabeth closed her eyes, hands clasping before her as she tried to collect herself, to set aside the mortification of their close-quarters hideaway and instead hold this man accountable. She let out a soft sigh, trying to be patient, staring at his feet. " _No_ , Mr. Frye, I do not know. That is precisely the issue. But if it has anything to do with your unexpected assault earlier, I believe I am owed an explanation." She gave a short nod, satisfied that she'd regained her composure.

He'd turned away a bit, patting at his coat, and when Elizabeth glanced up again— It was so hard to not immediately try to hide, seeing the massive curved knife he'd drawn. Too hard. Instinct kicked in, and she-

"Lizzie, stop." It was only slightly more request than command, but there was enough softness in it - and he hadn't raised the blade. So she relented, raising her chin again.

"I would rather you not call me that, sir." Her jaw was tight, unappreciative of his informality.

"Why not?" How could he sound surprised at that? She'd met him, what, three times? Four? She barely knew his name. And yet he seemed so innocently taken aback that she didn't want him to speak so casually with her? "It's what your friend called you." The blade hung limp in his grip, forgotten for the time being.

Her friend… "Who exactly…" She already had her suspicions before he answered.

"The blonde you were at the match with. Fulton, Fuller, something like that."

 _Emma_ Fuller. Soon to be Shearer. That… She sighed, resignedly. That made sense, then. Emma was the only one who called her that anymore - the only one she _let_ call her that — the only one she didn't _actively avoid_ , anyway. She pursed her lips, glaring out the corner of her eye as she remembered the sneering way the nickname had slipped from grimy children's lips. She'd put a stop to it when she could. _Elizabeth_. Much more refined. Still, Emma was notoriously bad at listening to her.

"So it's true, then?" He shook his head, his words a murmur of incredulous amusement. "Whitechapel born and bred."

She tucked nervous fingers into her pockets, worrying the loose threads hidden within, but kept her voice steady, meeting his curious gaze head-on. "Mr. Frye, my history is mine alone and none of your business."

He shrugged, nodding his assent, glancing away. "Fair enough."

She actually felt relieved for a moment. Before he spoke again.

"I just… I dunno. From there to here…" His head was lowered, eyes fixing on hers from beneath the brim of his hat, with a tone that covered mild suspicion with a mask of casual curiosity. "Seemed like a cover. ...Or a job." How did he manage to sound so genial with that hard edge underneath it all?

"It _is_ a job," she insisted, scowling, arms quickly crossing over her chest defensively. "It's good work and I was lucky to get it." Years working in the shops, months of carefully chosen words and actions, curating her impression for the wealthier ladies of the city; it was a bit insulting to call it luck, actually.

"No it—" He shook his head, shedding that air of intimidation easily. "With your, erm," his smirk at the ground was wry as he searched for the word. "...Talents. It just seemed…" He trailed off, but this time his bemusement seemed genuine. "...How do you do it, anyway?"

Elizabeth didn't need to ask what he meant. "I…" She hesitated. "I don't know." Shrugging halfheartedly, she let herself watch him with sharp eyes as long as he wasn't looking at her. Her voice was softer than she wanted, too much of her own uncertainty - her own puzzlement at how honest she was being - sneaking through. "I just do." She hadn't even considered it something unusual until somewhat recently. "...I've never had someone notice before," she admitted quietly.

There was a pause, a small contemplative frown twisting his lips. He watched his fingers playing along the intricate engraving on the knife, but it looked more like fidgeting than a threat. When he spoke it was a distracted murmur, and she had to wonder what was on his mind. "Evie does something like it."

Evie? Was that a friend of his? _Oh god_ \- was that his _wife_? If so, should she be relieved? Elizabeth blanched, head buzzing, confused not just by his words but by the bitter taste they brought to her mouth. _Stop it. Get a hold of yourself. Change the subject._ The words tumbling from her lips weren't exactly a subtle change of tack. "What's the knife for?"

"Hm?" He glanced up, then back, as though suddenly realising what his attentions to the blade might look like. "Not for you, love, god no," he assured her easily, tossing the blade casually into the air, as if to prove its harmlessness. She jumped, a quick shock lighting through her, barely having time to jar her before he'd caught the handle again, giving it an impressive-looking twirl. There was a flash of that cheeky grin again. "Nah, this lady's for Blighters, mostly. And Templars." Another flamboyant twist and flick, light dancing along the metal with the fluid movements as he took a couple steps toward her, voice lowering in a teasing murmur. "And rogues and thieves…"

He'd practically set her up. A single brow had lifted incredulously, mouth already opening, about to point out that he himself seemed to be the latter, when his earlier words were fully processed. "...Blighters?"

A smirk curled his lip as he gave a half-nod.

Her face had gone blank. "So…" He didn't wear their colours, but… "You work for the Rooks, then?"

His eyebrows shot up and she watched a look of pure delight dawn on his face. His lips were tight and she knew he was trying not to grin. Trying and failing miserably. "Work-" There was a small huff of laughter as he dropped his gaze to the floor, teeth flashing as he shook his head. "I don't work for the Rooks, love."

Oh thank go-

"I _am_ the Rooks."

* * *

 _A/N: There's more to this conversation, no worries, but I just couldn't pass up a chance to end with that. Thoughts?_


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